


Weather The Storm

by orphan_account



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Deaf!Gibson, Exchange Student AU, Fluff I think, Gibson's Real Name Is Philippe Hugo Guillet, I'll add more tags later on, M/M, based off a headcanon from my tumblr page
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-07 15:30:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12235656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Phillipe was both nervous and excited about going to England. And Tommy felt the same about having a Frenchman staying with his family for a few months.





	1. Prologue

The stupid questions that flooded the boy's mind were almost motivating. Did leaves look different in England? Were there dogs? What about books, were there any good plays, or any libraries? The questions seemed intelligent to him, and rather idiotic to everyone else.

"You'll see dogs, you nut," the boy's brother assured him one night, weeks before the trip. "And what place wouldn't have books?"

The boy—Phillipe Hugo Guillet, that is—wouldn't hear what his brother said, but he'd see the sigh that came from his lips, and he figured he'd asked too much. This was silly, he thought to himself. What sixteen year old gets fixated on dogs and books, instead of things such as the family he'll stay with in London? It was as though he forgot he'd stay with people for six months, give or take.

'Do you think I'll be taken seriously, Mari?' Phillipe had asked before he fell asleep. He looked over at his brother, who was trying restlessly to sleep over on the other side of the room, with a look that was too unreadable. 'They won't send me back until I have to go home, right?'

His brother Marius turned to look at his brother, with a raised eyebrow. 'Yes, Phillipe,' he signed. 'They'll love you. Now sleep before I chuck my pillow at you.'

—

"So you'll have some French Toast staying with you till, what, March? Seems kinda weird, mate."

The gaze Alex gave was piercing; Tommy felt as if he were some prisoner, being stared down by an officer. Why did Alex do this, to everyone? He just wanted to have lunch in peace.

The boy shrugged as his response, causing Alex to huff. "Look, it's going to be great, and I'm happy. Ma and Pa are looking forward to it. They never look forward to anything, so this has gotta be good. Didn't your pa have a student from New Zealand staying with him a few years back?"

Alex stabbed at his salad with a fork—Tommy wondered if he ever did anything that didn't look violent—before he thought of replying. Tommy didn't need his answer, though; he knew how Alex felt about people from abroad. He knew how Alex didn't trust people too well.

"Do you even know this kid's name, Tom?" Alex had asked, so sudden that Tommy jumped in his spot (his knees hit the table in the school cafeteria, and he felt eyes staring at him). "Or why he's even coming here? Who enjoys traveling to this shitty town, anyways?"

That did it for lunch.


	2. One

Marius had warned his parents that driving from Dunkirque to Northampton would be long, but the Guillets were prone to not listening.

To be fair, when you had a son like Marius Jacques Guillet, who was an excellent jokester and liar, you didn't know whether to believe him or not. The Guillets (specifically M. and Mme.) didn't bother with Googling how long a drive would take, and Phillipe had forgotten to ask somebody.

The drive was long, long enough to call it a road trip. The thing keeping it from being so was the lack of sandwiches and the AC being broken (and besides, who'd use an AC in the middle of September?). The family's minivan was packed with their youngest son's suitcases and his small bag of books, and Mollie (Phillipe and Marius's three year old sister) just had to bring her two favourite dolls with her. If nobody were claustrophobic, this would work, and it'd be a trip they'd tell their cousins at Thanksgiving. But Phillipe was suffering by being so close to Marius, and Marius's own claustrophobia wasn't helping any. Only Mollie and M. Guillet were having fun. Mme. Guillet didn't say a word over it—she kept her nose in her knitting.

"Papa, you should've bought us a bloody plane ticket," Marius spoke dryly from his place in the back. He envied Phillipe, who sat with his head against the window; the speakers were loud, and having children's songs playing on repeat were annoying, and Phillipe didn't notice any of it.

M. Guillet—better known as Arthur, and his wife Margarete—kept his eyes on the road, which was getting more and more busy as it became daylight (the family often left for trips, visits, and everything early, with four am being the latest they'd get on the road), but he took time to answer his eldest son. "Monsieur Dupree said it was just about four hours from home, mon fils." He spoke with a heavy French accent, one even Marius couldn't make out. "Be patient, like Phillipe Hugo. Ask the lad how he's doing, would you?"

From behind the seats, Marius rolled his eyes (something Margarete scolded him on, as Mollie picked up on it). He tapped on his brother's shoulder, so hard that it startled the boy. 'Papa wants to know how you feel,' Marius signed, using lazy hand gestures that Phillipe disliked.

Phillipe tugged at the sleeves of his sweater. 'I guess,' he signed in response, 'I'm alright. Rather worried now.'

Marius cut him off at that, relaying the message to their father. Really, Phillipe didn't mind—he didn't—but having a brother who should've moved out when he turned twenty four wasn't all that great. Marius acted like a stereotypical teenager, and he wasn't even one now.

The curly haired boy turned his attention back to his window; he tried to look out at the trees that passed them, but they were all mostly lifeless in the coming days of fall. Some red-orange leaves clung to branches, and being the boy he was, Phillipe would point them out to Mollie, and asked her what the names of the colours were in both French and English. It would be the last time he had a chance of doing that until he went home.

He was going to miss home.

—

Northampton was beautiful.

To be frank, Phillipe half expected the town to be rugged and filthy—his friend from choir told him it would be—and seeing the brilliant buildings and architecture blew him away. Men and women strode along the streets in fashion he hadn't seen in Dunkirque, and, just as Marius said, there were dogs. The boy let himself exclaim a sigh of joy, without caring what his family would think of his voice. Northampton wouldn't be too bad.

'See that school there, Mari?' Phillipe signed with such admiration of this town. He'd point at different buildings, different statues, anything he saw, directing Marius to where it stood. 'This is much better than boring France, any day!' Marius would scoff at him, debating on which place was better, but Arthur agreed with Phillipe in the end.

The drive to Phillipe's new-ish home (or, the one he'd stay in with his new family, of sorts) seemed to go quick. The boy kept signing about the beauty of the city, while Mollie tried to get his attention and play dolls. Marius regretted sitting in between them.

'Won't it be lovely?' Phillipe turned to face his brother, with a hint of wonder in his eyes. He had an award-winning smile on his elven-like face, one that made him look like a child again. 'I'll learn more here, more than I have learned in France, Marius. And I may make some friends.'

The family pulled into the driveway before Marius could answer—but Phillipe doubted he'd reply anyways.

—

"Thomas, are you finished cleaning the guest's room?"

Tommy didn't reply to his mother; she'd be bothering her eldest son about his job applications within seconds, or even at that moment. But to answer her question: he did finish. He finished a week ago, and then redid it, and he did that up until today. His mother wanted everything to look spotless.

"Ma," Tommy would say each time Mrs. Caldwell asked him, "the house is clean. Besides, he's French. I doubt he'll say a word about the house in English." Mrs. Caldwell would ignore him, and then Tommy would sigh and clean again. That was the routine lately.

The teenager set his drumsticks down—his parents hated those drums, and wished he never bought them—, listening for his father (who went in to defend his wife if their sons didn't clean before visitors). When he didn't hear the low voice ever present each night at dinner, he let out a small sigh of relief. Who could clean the same, clean room for a full week? It was like a prison chore.

When would the Frenchman get here? Tommy had asked himself that every five minutes, since he woke up. His brother had a rough night—Michael hasn't slept well since coming home—and it woke everyone. Michael never meant to wake anyone, and sometimes he'd have nights where he didn't wake up with flashbacks. But nights like that weren't common. The eldest brother kept his head low at breakfast (an early one, at seven am), not ready to answer his father's questions. Tommy didn't know how to handle it.

The question remained the same: when would this guy get here? For a few weeks now, Alex kept coming up with 'brilliant' names for the Frenchman (they ranged from 'frog' to 'the French Toast', and some that Tommy didn't want to think about), and Tommy was left dumbfounded by the fact that he didn't deck his friend yet. The Englishman pondered the question like a math problem, until he heard something pull into the driveway.

"Tommy-Boy, your future boyfriend's here!"

That was the first thing Michael said that day. Tommy rolled his eyes as he ran down to the front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kinda a bit of a filler chapter, but today I'll add more (chapter two!). We'll see a bit more of Michael, and Alex will make a return soon ;)


	3. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time they meet, featuring feelings

It was a relief to know that Tommy wasn’t the only one awake at eight am.

When the Englishman opened the front door to greet the new boy, he saw his neighbours in their normal routine. Collins was walking his dog—the dog was practically walking him, in all honesty—, and he could’ve sworn he saw that Mills kid from Mathematics climb over the Dawson’s fence. Seeing everyone awake and going about their day made Tommy feel guilty for his love of sleeping in. But the guilt wouldn’t last too long.

He turned his attention back to the boy. The boy, the one who fell out of his family’s silver van—maybe he was pushed; he had a relative beside him who looked to be as tough as Michael—the French boy. He had a mop of dark curls, the kind Tommy thought only little kids had and grew out of. It was hard to see what the boy looked like; he moved quickly, with a certain air to him. Graceful was the word Tommy was grasping for. That’s a word he’d use to describe the boy.

He remembered what his father had said, just over three weeks back. “The French boy, the one who’ll be boarding with us, he’s deaf.” He looked at Tommy then, and Tommy could recall the smile that formed on his face. Finally, his knowledge on sign language would go to a good use—so far he only signed swear words to Alex when he couldn’t talk during class. He told Alex about the boy the next day, and Alex cursed under his breath. “Just what we need,” he huffed, loud enough for anyone to hear. “You’ll get your head too wrapped around this guy, Tom. I know you.”

Maybe he was right. Tommy felt himself melting.

The Frenchman had gotten to his feet by the time Tommy snapped out of his dreams. He was taking his bags out of the van (his family was handing them out through the window, and Tommy guessed this was normal for them), and he had this... this melancholy look about him. Tommy couldn’t place a name on it, but he’d seen it before. A sad smile, if you called a forced grin with a quivering lip a smile. Oh God, he felt bad, this boy was missing home.

The Englishman tapped the boy’s shoulder. ‘Do you want me to show you to your room?’ The boy shot him a quizzical look, and Tommy instantly felt a pang of guilt. ‘I’m Thomas, by the way. Tommy preferably. Are you the Frenchman?’

‘I’m the Frenchman, yes,’ the boy signed back within seconds; his face was starting to light up. He held one of his bags close to his chest. ‘My name is Phillipe Hugo, though I’m called Phillipe by most... you knew to sign? My coming didn’t force you into learning it, did it?’ The look on his face betrayed anxiety; Tommy waved it off.

‘No, no, I’ve been learning,’ he explained, and he didn’t think he’s ever seen someone smile as much as Phillipe was. It was a sheepish grin, one that could manage to brighten a room. Tommy was definitely falling. ‘Do you want me to give you a tour of the house?’

The Frenchman looked to his shoes. ‘I would appreciate it.’

—

The Englishman was too nice.

When Phillipe first announced that he was interested in the student exchange program, his mother filled his head with worries. ‘What if they aren’t nice, Philly? You know how people can be.’ Phillipe would calmly reassure her that, yes, he was wildly aware of people’s judgement, and that it wouldn’t be any different than what he was used to at school. She’d begin to cry, and tried to get her husband to talk their boy out of it, but Arthur was all for the trip. And that ended the conversation.

Margarete had yet to say goodbye to her son; they had left hours ago, and she only looked at her knitting. It stung. Phillipe felt like crying, back in the driveway. But Tommy helped him. He didn’t cry yet.

Tommy was too nice to him, and Phillipe wished he could tell his mother this. Having somebody who treated him like an equal was a rare thing; he’d gotten used to the criticism. People laughed at him for still being in choir; he wouldn’t sing, but he’d help their instructor with basic things. He knew where to place the sopranos among the many tenors and baritones, and he became good friends with their one alto. He and the alto performed a theatre song at their school’s winter festival; she sang, and he signed. That was the one friend he had who treated him as an equal.

And now he had Tommy, an Englishman.

  
‘The tour was lovely, Thomas.’ Phillipe pressed his hand on the Englishman’s shoulder as they made their way to the family room (Tommy didn’t mind, and in fact encouraged him to be brotherly; they would be living under the same roof for a while, after all). His cheeks glowed with a rosy tint, one he’d blame on the broken heaters in the home. He sat back in a recliner when Tommy flicked on the family’s television (a very poor TV from the nineties), smiling from ear to ear. ‘I’ve never been in such a lovely house. Ours back in Dunkirque is cluttered.’ He watched Tommy nod as he flicked through channels on the television. Was he talking too much?

He had one last question, at least.

‘So, you’ll be introducing me to your friends?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn’t much, I know.. I’m kind of proud of this chapter, though, and I have many ideas to follow. I would’ve made this chapter longer, but the ideas I had just didn’t fall into this plot line, and I didn’t want to totally change it out of nowhere. If that makes sense.
> 
> I’ll update it again sometime soon; in the next chapter, Alex will be back, and a few others will be added!
> 
> Thank you guys so much for reading, and for each review. It means so much. I hope you guys enjoy this story! And if anyone has any requests or whatever, or wants to see something happen, please let me know!

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is only the prologue, which I shared on Tumblr (@gorgiielovelace, though my Dunkirk blog is @phillipehugoguillet!) a few days ago, and I promise that the next chapters will be longer! This is my first Dunkirk fic, so I'm sorry if it's not all that great!
> 
> Reviews would be awesome!


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